A Scandal in Binary Equations
by LoveAlltheSherlocks
Summary: Sherlock watches his plan unfold too slowly, while John copes with Sherlock's death. They both are reduced to re-evaluating certain points in their lives, along with their friendship. Story 2 of 3 in the L'esprit de L'escalier Series; Can be read on its own though, if you don't mind it.
1. Raein

"Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock blinked his eyes open, and there was an Angel standing before him. Well really, she was floating. Or…hovering. An Angel, obviously, dressed in white robes and creamy skin, blue-green eyes and light hair.

It occurred to Sherlock that perhaps angels were different for each individual person. If in stories and myths Angels were Heaven's guardians, then they certainly were held in highest regard of whoever was entering Heaven, no? Sherlock eyed his Angel, wondering why she looked the way she did. Perhaps she has light skin because angels would in London, certainly. Maybe it was where you were from.

He glanced around to compare other angels to each other, but he saw no one else.

Perhaps he was prejudiced. Otherwise she could have looked…different.

Or maybe she was alive, once.

But whoever she was, or is, Sherlock felt a familiar pull as he looked the girl (woman) over. She looked familiar. She…felt familiar.

Sherlock chuckled to himself, considering the situation. How poetic, he thought. You give your life for someone else's and you get into heaven? Or maybe it was an illusion. Maybe nothing actually happened…But either way, he was standing across from an Angel.

She was blindingly pale though, and compared to him she almost seemed normal. Sherlock licked his lips and tasted blood. There was a searing pain in his chest.

The Angel smiled. "Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He blinked again and glanced around- all white. Not poetic, but still resembling a fantasy.

If only he could tell John.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't need anything?"

Maybe it was Molly. Sherlock always had connections- his homeless net, the attendants at Bart's Morgue. Maybe it wasn't really Sherlock. Maybe a decoy. Maybe he planned ahead. He does that, doesn't he? He was always five steps ahead of everyone-

"John."

Maybe Sherlock had a twin.

"John!" Harry's voice made John inhale sharply, and he looked up from the floor. He blinked but didn't say anything, letting his thoughts wander again after a few minutes.

And they were just at Baskerville.

Maybe cloning isn't _too _far of an advanced technology.

"Where am I?" is an incredibly stupid question to ask when all you can see is blinding white light all around you. It's also a dumb question to ask when you know you've just died.

And when an Angel is standing in front of you.

The Angel in question swept her arm in the general direction of the white…atmosphere. "This is everything you wanted. That's what happens here. Anything you want. Just think it."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and took a glance around, thinking. It was all very empty. He couldn't complain about the quiet, but it was missing a necessary element. A very obvious element.

"Can I file a complaint?"

The Angel only smiled serenely at him. As if she knew what he wanted. Like she knew what he needed.

"Thought not."

* * *

"John, I brought some munchies for us and a good drink too. I went _expensive_." Harry barged through the front door.

"Mmm." John made a small noise from where he was.

When she saw where John was, a sad sigh escaped her. He was curled up in Sherlock's chair, eyes open, but blank. Not looking at anything in particular.

"Bed, maybe…?" She spoke quietly as she approached him, careful not to give him a fright.

He'd had enough of one, hadn't he?

But to no one's surprise, John didn't even notice her movement. He only breathed shallows breaths. She could almost hear his pulse in her own head.

Harry swallowed and went back to the kitchen.

* * *

"You can't see him." Was all The Angel told Sherlock, after his third time suggesting the idea. Of course he'd been so polite about it, too- Only bringing it up in the middle of her tour and every one of her sentences.

"Why." It was more of a statement rather than a question, because he really didn't care for the answer anyway. He only wanted to make sure she had one.

"It's part of the rules. You're not allowed to see him." But the look on her face added something to the statement, and Sherlock's lips crinkled a bit. He was never one for hope before, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

"Yet."

The Angel only let out a small sigh. Not a frustrated one. And Sherlock followed her along the white bridge.

* * *

**The Personal Blog of John Watson**

**Private Entry: April 17****th****, 2012**

My best friend is dead.

_Delete the whole damn day_, John thought.

* * *

"What are the other rules, then?" Sherlock let himself be guided into white rooms and white halls. He felt very weak all of a sudden. No explanation showed itself for that, but that didn't matter at the moment. If this tight-lipped _thing_ was going to answer any of his questions they might as well be his good ones. His best ones.

The Angel stopped in front of a white doorway and pushed a white door open- Sherlock _really _wished his brain would stop noticing that everything was white, thank you- and turned to him. "Say hello," she said.

Say hello to who? Sherlock furrowed his brows, looking into the room to see- _Oh._

Siger Holmes, but he was still young.

Well of course. Siger died when Sherlock was only seventeen, just before he started Uni. It was almost scary, how close Siger looked to Sherlock now. Or vice-versa. They were almost the same age now, weren't they?

_Seventeen, he was forty-one, I'm thirty-nine now- _But Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted when Siger turned and gave him a small smile.

"You use to insist that you would die young," He chuckled. "I do think I lost that bet."

"Even younger than you," Sherlock spoke seriously, not moving any closer to the man he'd hated since his death, abandonment because Siger couldn't care more for his family than his research; and Sherlock was the one who had watched him die. It's something Sherlock is aware repeats itself in their family history- Enemies being threatened and taking matters into their own hands for revenge. And Sherlock's death will have been the third to ring true of that fate. He didn't think of that until just now-

"Oh, get out of that head of yours." Siger interrupted Sherlock again. "Come here, we'll get you all cleaned up. Then I've got a great experiment for you to look at."

Sherlock raised his brow and stepped forward, realizing how weak his muscles…how weak his _bones_ felt. He didn't need cleaning up. It was Heaven after all, wasn't it?

But when he looked down and finally turned to look behind him, Sherlock realized a trail of blood being left in his path.

Red on white again.

Sherlock forced himself to turn back to Siger.

"'S alright, Sher, you'll be right as rain in no time." Siger smiled quickly, holding out his hand the way he used to, when Sherlock would fall on the stairs or come home with a busted lip. "Right as rain."

Sherlock always hated that phrase. He also hated the rain. But he took Siger's hand anyway.

It's what you do. You follow your father.

A piano sat in the corner of the room.

* * *

Three months and two days later (not that John was ever counting, no, and definitely not the hours- Sherlock would probably be appalled) John left the flat and took a trip to Bart's. He didn't see anyone in particular, didn't even say a word. But he sat where Sherlock did on the day they met, looking into the microscope Sherlock had to replace after breaking one three times. Molly actually threw a fit at him, and so began a ten-minute row that ended in Sherlock (accurately, as always) depicting the previous nights' date for all to hear. And Molly leaving in tears.

John had to pick the bloody thing out. And Sherlock still scoffed that it was an older model. But John hated to see Molly in trouble because of some bloody case, and it was all he could (barely) afford without nicking Sherlock's card. Not like he didn't deserve it.

Sherlock was always getting people into trouble. Too bad, John thought as he played with a small dropper on the table, because he couldn't get out of his own damn trouble.

And wasn't Sherlock some sort of a genius?

* * *

The fact that on Earth three months had already passed John Watson by- and any other living person Sherlock knew- surprised him. It only felt like some odd weeks to Sherlock, and he'd been enjoying them. No longer (entirely) angry about his Father's death, the burden of his own slowly dissolving into the bright light around him, he actually looked forward to sleeping here. Living here. Mostly because it was quiet when he needed it, but sometimes because his Father was nearby somewhere- whistling as he did before. The songs vaguely sounded the same, but there was a ring to it Sherlock couldn't place. Something different. Something sad.

Sherlock felt younger here, somehow. And there were no mirrors here to disprove any theories, so he never questioned it.

He was even able to finish a few experiments he left in the Baker Street kitchen with Siger. Siger never said much, and neither did Sherlock, but there was more to their wordless murmurs breathed against the table's tile. There was less to care about. Less to feel guilty for. Not that Sherlock felt guilty often, but there was something.

"Did you not want a funeral?" Siger asked on the ninety-third day, or forty-sixth in Sherlock's mind. Sherlock blinked and stood up straight, looking at him across the table. He spoke the way he always did when you asked a stupid question, but Siger never faulted him for it.

"I changed that, in the papers. Said I didn't need one, but John was free to arrange one if he wanted."

Siger nodded once in understanding, bending back over to jot down a few notes. Sherlock watched him for a few minutes, chest tightening. The thought of John standing in front of a grave fluttered behind his eyes- and suddenly, the scene played out onto the walls of the room, the tiles…everywhere. He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to separate nightmare from truth. "Did he…hold one?"

Siger didn't say anything, only shaking his head as he ripped out the fifty-ninth paper from his endless notebook and tossed it away. He didn't aim for the bin behind him but it made it in anyway. Sherlock exhaled and opened his eyes; The pictures on the walls faded into white again.

"I might be able to see him soon." Sherlock spoke under his breath and glanced around, wondering if he was being watched. Siger stayed silent, the Angel never appeared. "She won't tell me how, so I'm assuming I've got to figure it out myself. Not that it won't be difficult. I'm sure I'm not the first person…" his voice trailed off as the white of the walls sketched into a new picture: John's face, wide-eyed and teeth-baring grin. Disbelief at first, melting into happiness at Sherlock's return from the dead. Sherlock watched the same vision over three times before turning back to his father.

Siger nodded and studied Sherlock silently. It was all too evident what he was doing, observing him.

So that's what that felt like. Sherlock almost forgot.

Siger's voice was quiet, but heavy. The words weighed Sherlock's chest down, and the pain returned. "Be careful with him. Broke his heart once; He needs it."

Sherlock resumed his acts on the molding ring finger of some nameless human, shaking away the thought of his own funeral. And John with an unbeating heart.

Siger's whistling filled the room.

* * *

"John, it's been four months. I think it's time to look at our options now." Mycroft sat in John's chair, John in Sherlock's as the new usual. A habit formed unintentionally, but he wasn't complaining. And no one else commented, for fear of the result.

John didn't say anything.

"I refuse to use my abilities to change Sherlock's documents, John," Mycroft glanced in the direction of Sherlock's old violin, sighing. "Because obviously Sherlock changed them to your benefit. But while you are sitting in his chair, Sherlock's body is in a drawer. We both know it deserves a _final_ resting place."

Funny, that. John almost smiled at the thought of Sherlock's body in a drawer forever. Maybe Sherlock would prefer it that way. Maybe he should have specified.

But damn him, John thought. If he didn't want to choose a funeral service he shouldn't have gone off and gotten shot at. It only made sense, didn't it?

John turned his face into the back of Sherlock's chair, closing his eyes. Three minutes later, he heard the front door shut and Mycroft's car pull away.

Maybe he should pick up the violin.

* * *

Sherlock rolled over on his bed, and exact replica of the one in the flat on Baker Street. He fiddled with the pocket watch, between thumb and fingers, clicking it open and shut repeatedly.

Siger stepped into the room (what sort of room was it, really, an empty space with no walls or colors) and sat on the edge of the bed. The bed suddenly changed to Sherlock's childhood one, and Sherlock felt a change too. He felt small as he looked up to his father.

"I think," Siger said quietly, "That you need to see him." After a few more minutes of silence, he spoke again. "And I haven't heard you play in a while."

Sherlock nodded silently, listening to the _tick-tick-ticking _of the watch in his hand. But as he watched it, the second hand never moved.

* * *

It wasn't that the flat felt any different than before, either. In fact, it felt exactly the same. Sherlock's breathing was light somewhere in the room, and John could almost hear it. And maybe a soft song too, notes plucked on the strings of Sherlock's Strativarius from the living room, suddenly.

But as John walked out to the room and glanced around him, he realized no one was there.

And neither was the violin.

John felt a flash of anger in his veins suddenly. He _knew _he saw it sitting there, just this morning. Right when Mycroft-

Ah. The bastard. John should have known.

He dialed Mycroft's number with more force than necessary. "I want the violin back. He left it to me in his will!"

"Mycroft sleepily sighed into the microphone, the whoosh making it to John's ear. "John, I don't have Sherlock's violin. I left it beside his chair when I left."

"Don't lie to me, you twat-" John was seething now, how _dare _he-

Mycroft spoke sternly then, snapping John's attention away from his anger. "John, that is enough, don't you think? It's four in the morning."

John took a deep breath and looked at the floor. Leave it to the elder Holmes to embarrass him over the phone, of all ways. John looked around again. Maybe he did move the violin.

"My brother is dead, Doctor Watson. I'd like to try and get some sleep." Mycroft's voice drawled a bit, moving back towards his pillow.

"Yeah, right, sorry-" John hung the phone up and tossed it at his chair, before collapsing into Sherlock's with a sigh.

He needed some sleep. It had been three days, really.

The sounds of Mendelssohn's concerto in E minor grew in John's ears, lulling him to sleep.

Time goes on.

* * *

When he slept Sherlock dreamt of Baker Street. Saying things he never said before, but in a dream language no one ever understood, not even Sherlock. He'd wake up and try to go back, seeing John's face again- and occasionally Mrs. Hudson's too.

This never helped the time pass, but it made it worth more. Sherlock appreciated the notion that Heaven was allowing him, that he could see his John Watson at least every other night. And perhaps once a night, if he played his cards right.

There were rules here, but no one knew them without learning from experience first. It took Sherlock's father yelling at him that he learned the value of sleeping well-because it was the only thing that slowly healed you. Sherlock had fainted in the lab on the thirty-first day because he hadn't slept in three nights, and Siger spent the afternoon pressing a cloth to Sherlock's chest. The blood pouring from Sherlock's heart soaked the cloth seventeen times, only to clear up again.

And the entire time, Sherlock was forced to watch John's face over him; As Sherlock felt his previous life slip through Siger's fingers, John's face fell over and over again. John's cries drowned in Sherlock's ears- even the ones he'd never heard before, because he was already dead.

Sherlock took well to sleeping after that.

It took him almost six Earth months (eighty-two days) to realize the pattern of time. Things were opposite and doubled, but not always. Night was day. Days were twice as long and the nights too short. But nothing was set in stone. Everything could change, if you knew how to do it.

When Sherlock slept, John was already gone from Baker Street now. Early morning hours, Sherlock noticed- leaving for the clinic. He counted days and counted them over again, realizing. It was a good ratio for Sherlock, actually: One day here was two days on Earth. But he wasn't alive to enjoy it anyway. Oh, the work he could have achieved.

How could it be so _simple, _Sherlock thought to himself. And how could he have not figured it out sooner? All this time he could have had, getting to John. Making him see, making him _understand_. He needed to understand.

So Sherlock wrote notes during the day and spoke to his father, and waited for night.

He'd never wanted to sleep so much in his life, until he was dead.

* * *

John could have sworn Sherlock was there.

It was early sunset and he wasn't sleeping, naturally, and Sherlock had to have been there. It was the only way to explain Bach's Brandenburg Concerto no. 2 played quietly from Sherlock's room. But John dared not to go in there just yet.

He wondered if maybe Mycroft had lied. Maybe he hid the violin in Sherlock's room. So it wouldn't be reminding John _every _day. Since he had enough reminders of his own.

He hadn't opened Sherlock's bedroom door since that night- and John wasn't about to be disappointed again.

* * *

Perhaps it was time.

Sherlock was feeling particularly lazy, though the pain in his chest had dulled and less blood was left on the tiles beneath his feet now. He was breathing normally and his thoughts were more coherent- probably the experiments. He was able to right his train of thought the more he worked.

The Angel never did explain to Sherlock when he'd be able to see John, but now he understood. He felt nearly ready for the jump. Something unexplainable (and that scared him, it did) told him: Soon he'd be strong enough for two-world travel. He walked straighter in this new world and moved almost as quickly as he did before. That must have been it, then. If you could heal from your death, you could move between the worlds. Move between reality and fantasy, or whatever you called this.

For an amount of time, at least. Sherlock hadn't figured that part out yet.

He sighed softly as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet barely touched the floor and he let his mind wander.

What's the first thing you do when you return to Earth?

"Nothing." Siger answered him from his own bed across the space. Sherlock didn't notice he was sleeping there now too. "You wonder for a while, what you want to do. But you never go through with it because of the fear."

"I've never been afraid." Sherlock argued with no emotion, and swung his legs defiantly.

Siger let out a laugh. "You were afraid of heights when you were little. Remember that?"

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Never wanted to go to the attic, thought you were going to fall out of the window." Siger stood up and looked down at Sherlock, smiling. "Fear, in the end, is always what gets you. It's what got me."

Sherlock swallowed and saw more pictures flowing over the walls again; Ones he deleted from his mind forever ago: The Birlstone Manor in Sussex, a bloodied footprint, a note John never saw.

"_I say, John,' Sherlock rose an eyebrow and spoke quietly- "would you be afraid to sleep in the same room as a lunatic-"_

"_Not the best choice of words, mate." John chuckled, and Sherlock scoffed before continuing and adding more emphasis to his words-]._

"_John. A man with __**softening**__ of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip? What about then?" He watched John intently, his hand gripping the doorknob as if he realized something in this case John hadn't yet. But that always happened._

_John took a deep breath, before answering, never taking his eyes off Sherlock._

"_No, not at all." Here they were now, at Baker Street, and suddenly Sherlock was on edge. Despite the fact that the man was dead, the case over. Unless…_

"_Ah, that's lucky." Sherlock interrupted John's thoughts and looked at peace for a moment, before stepping back and closing his bedroom door in John's face. Sherlock's room was quiet for the rest of the night._

_Three weeks after that, Sherlock received the note that confirmed his suspicions. __**"Dear me, Mr. Holmes, dear me."**_

_An admission from Moriarty himself. The beginning of a new game._

Sherlock growled and jumped down from the bed, filing the images away as his walls washed back to white. He knew he'd be _damned_ out of…Heaven, or whereverthis was- before he let _fear _(!) of all things keep him from John.

It was the only thing Sherlock had to try for anymore.

* * *

John woke up with a start, hearing Sherlock's voice.

"I'm sorry." He spoke sincerely, and John inhaled sharply.

"You should be, you prat." John spoke without thinking. This was a dream, after all, he could talk to Sherlock if he liked. And call him names. He glanced around, but Sherlock wasn't there.

Maybe he was sleep-thinking, or something.

Sherlock's voice filled the room, and yet it felt empty around John at the same time. "You have to understand why, John." John groaned in reply.

"There's nothing to understand, Sherlock, you're _dead_." John snapped and pressed his face into the pillow, wondering which he'd prefer: Never hearing Sherlock's voice again, or hearing Sherlock every night and losing sleep. "Nothing to understand about that, really."

He'd have to go with the latter, fuck you very much.

Sherlock slipped away quietly. For once.

Until a violin started playing softly, and then louder.

"God _damn _it." John sighed and started to bury his head under the pillow, then stopped to figure out what song it was.

Clair de Lune.

John gave up all pretense of sleep, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and going to the window. Maybe it was a message.

But it was too cloudy to even see the moon.

* * *

"What will you say to him?"

"That depends on whether or not he believes I'm there." Sherlock let three drops of liquidized natrium chloride (yes, we all know its salt, thank you) into the Petri dish, holding his breath. Nothing happened. Damn. He turned the dish over to rinse it out, and it emptied immediately.

Siger watched him carefully. "For all the preparation you went though, nothing's actually going according to plan. You do realize that."

Sherlock growled as his thirteenth trial came up short, and the salt only fizzed in the dish. He stood up and leaned his hands on the counter.

"Then perhaps I should visit someone else first."

* * *

**Notes:** The flashback was a nod to Arthur Conan's Doyle's canon in "The Valley of Fear", part 1, Chapter 6. Watson's original answer was not the same as John's in this story, though it's along the same line. Obviously the "Dear me, Mr. Holmes" was a bit of a twist from BBC Canon as well.

Chapter Title from the song "Raein" (translation "Rain") By Olafur Arnalds. Lovely artist, lovely song.

Siger Holmes' name is borrowed from William Baring-Gould's "Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street", a biography written by him. In "The Adventure of the Empty House," Holmes briefly mentions that he spent some time under the Norwegian Name of Sigerson. Baring-Gould reads/translates this name to mean "Son of Siger." In my headcanon this is true; and Sherlock's father's name is Siger Holmes.

If you like this chapter and would like the background of Sherlock's death (or if you haven't read it) then please take a moment to look at the first part in this series: A Study in Words and Numbers. There is a lot more Sherlock and John there, seeing as Sherlock is alive in the story. It might help to understand a few things in future chapters, too.

Thanks so much for reading. Xoxo, C


	2. You Wash Away our Sins in Water

One-hundred and fifty-two days after Sherlock Holmes had left John Watson alone, he was doing the wash.

This wasn't the first time he's done that since Sherlock's death, but it was the most notable.

"Miss Adler, a parcel for you."

"Oh? From whom?"

"Private, M'am."

"Most of them are." Irene extended her arm to take hold of the manila envelope in the service attendant's hand. She ran her fingers over the inked letters of her name.

She'd recognize that handwriting anywhere.

"Well," she spoke to no one in particular, after the attendant had closed the door behind him. "Someone's been digging up trouble."

* * *

It's not that John didn't notice the shirt.

Who _wouldn't _notice it, really. Sherlock Holmes was the epitome of vain and his wardrobe of choice echoed that well. Or badly, John wasn't sure.

But it wasn't that John didn't notice. He just didn't have a second thought until _after _he ironed it. And hung it on the hanger, as close to perfect as he could. He wouldn't have Sherlock complaining about stretched-out shoulders-

Well, actually, he really wouldn't, now, would he?

"Christ." John nearly fell backwards from the ironing table when he finally did realize, his back hitting the wall. "Christ _alive_, you idiot." He ran his hand over the back of his neck, forcing himself to watch the steam rising from the iron. Anything to avoid the purple fabric on the hanger.

Who was he even talking to? Sherlock…or himself?

"Sh-Sherlock." John choked out the name halfway between a curse and a prayer, wondering how long the iron could be left there and not start making those damned noises it did. He would have bought a new one, but…well. Even as a military man, John never ironed his shirts as much as he should. Especially when Sherlock's needed much more caring for.

But he didn't have to worry about that anymore.

John straightened back on his feet and unplugged the iron before setting it away, grabbing for the hanger. He toyed with Sherlock's collar for a few minutes, fingers running over the purple stitching and buttons.

And that's when he looked around for a place to stuff it.

He could burn it, maybe…? No. John sighed. If nothing else, Sherlock's clothes could be given to charity, or something. Someone could find a good use for designer labels, right? The Homeless Net- maybe Sherlock would be happy knowing his clothes went somewhere and were used well. Or maybe he'd be pissed off.

Or maybe, John thought with some sort of bitterness, Sherlock was dead and he supposed it wouldn't matter what John did with his clothes.

Maybe John should just keep it. Whenever he got around to going through Sherlock's things he could still keep one shirt for himself, right? It was true- Sherlock left him everything else, and John wouldn't dare keep it all- whatever it all was. But one shirt couldn't hurt. They were best friends, weren't they? Partners.

Best friends…John groaned quietly, thinking of the steps of grieving and why on Earth he needed to go through them. But he silently admitted to himself that if he was going to take the next step, he needed to admit that there was something to grieve. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

John was a grown man. It was time to sort through Sherlock's shit.

Clutching the fabric he'd now torn off the hanger (torn off in spite, really, because no one would notice anymore-it was Sherlock's own fault he was dead), John slowly stepped toward Sherlock's bedroom with trepidation. The door was shut just as John had left it that night, and no one dared touch it. Mycroft tried once and John cursed at him. Lestrade gave it a go (per Mycroft, of course) and John didn't say anything to him. But the look told Greg enough, and he left the flat without a word.

Mrs. Hudson even tried. "You don't know what could be in there, John." She poked and prodded about the flat, John's eyes following her cautious movements. "Could be…experiments, you know."

John waved a hand in dismissal, and didn't even ask for tea.

Molly was the only one who didn't ask questions. "Took me a long time to even go back home after…my Dad." She swallowed and looked away, making John shudder. "Didn't wanted to touch his things, but one day you'll wake up and you'll just shrug, calling yourself silly."

John feigned a smile and a nod then.

"Or maybe it's just me that's silly," she squeaked and stood up, grabbing her clutch. "Must be….off, then, I'll see you soon? Come by Bart's whenever." And before John could even open his mouth (not that anything useful would have come out of it) Molly had dashed off.

John came back to present time as he approached Sherlock's door, pressing his forehead against it. His fingertips ghosted over the doorknob and he took a deep breath. _God help me_, he thought as he turned it and pushed the door open. _God fucking help me_, his brain supplied as he turned the light on.

* * *

"Miss. Adler, what an unpleasant surprise." Mycroft gestured for Irene to sit in the chair opposite his desk.

Irene stood just a foot in front of him. "Oh, the displeasure's all mine, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft smiled a bit, annoyed already. "I take it you've come into possession of the folder I sent you."

"Yes, and it's been so _revealing_." Irene's voice rang out into the room as she stepped past Mycroft and to his chair. "Thank you for the clean getaway, by the way. My funds have been more than enough for luxury living."

"So I've noticed." Mycroft turned to look at her. "I don't suppose you'll move away from that desk. Very important papers sitting right there."

"I've got no interest in what your offices plan on doing with the newest Russian ambassador, Mr. Holmes." Irene flashed a grin at Mycroft and sat down. "Not that I don't know already. I was actually just wondering why I didn't receive this envelope sooner."

"Even I didn't have it." Mycroft tapped the edge of the desk. "It only came to _my _possession a month ago. I don't know from where either, we did all the necessary scans."

"But you know whose it was." Irene crossed her right leg over her left, turning the chair to face the window.

Mycroft waits a moment before speaking. "My brother never ceases to amaze me, Miss Adler, even in death. But there was nothing I needed from the envelope, and that's why you have it."

"He certainly had…_has_ my work cut out for me." Irene laughed. "I feel sorry that you were the one to take care of him."

"If you're trying to ask whether or not I actually read the papers-" Mycroft furrowed his brows.

"I know you didn't. I was just checking." Irene stood and glided over to Mycroft again, placing a quick peck on his cheek. "I'm surprised you haven't asked me how I did it. In Karachi."

Mycroft stiffened at the contact and stood straight, heaving a sigh. "As I said. My brother never ceases to amaze me."

"Oh!" Irene laughed again, but condescendingly. "And how long did it take you to figure that out?"

Mycroft only looked out of the window. A slow grin stretched out on Irene's face. "It's alright. I'm sure the whole _point _of him rescuing me was so he could _keep _it from you." She picked her coat up, slipping it on. "I guess I _am _special."

"I wouldn't hold out much hope for the affection of a dead man, Miss Adler." Mycroft snapped and then inhaled slowly, running his fingers over the watch in his pocket.

"Of course not." Irene shook her head and stopped to turn back in the doorway. "But the envelope _is _addressed to me." She tilted her head. "You really aren't mourning properly. I see you've indulged a bit on the sweets."

After the door closed, Mycroft covered his face with his hands.

* * *

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't _see_, really, but breathing is more important.

No, breathing's boring.

But John already knew he was boring. The most boring thing on the planet, maybe, like Sherlock called him once. John had snapped about running out of milk.

"_Milk is boring, you're boring, shut up! I can't think when you're fuming about in here. Go away."_

John forced some more air into his lungs and looked around. Sherlock's room was still a mess- not that he'd been expecting any different.

It was a bloody crime scene.

* * *

In his dream, Irene used the riding crop again.

But it was a hell of a lot harder on his skin, and Sherlock might have actually enjoyed it, too.

"Don't worry, love. I'm only returning your letter."

And just as Sherlock's orgasm threatened to take him, he woke up- his pillow soaked in sweat and a JW painted on his chest. Images of _The Woman_, clothed and naked, ran over the walls and ceiling above his bed. Sherlock squinted and studied them, studied her mannerisms again. Since he had the chance.

Siger's voice nearly boomed in Sherlock's ears, making him jump. "The Woman finally came to see you?"

"_The _Woman," Sherlock automatically corrected him, the prefix dragged out as he ran a hand through his hair.

"Ah, right." Siger nodded with a knowing smile. "Yes, then."

Sherlock turned over in the bed, ready to wait. Irene's movements looped over the white paint, but Sherlock just let them play.

Siger's whistling faded into the halls.

* * *

**Notes: **Title from an unknown quote: "God of mercy, you wash away our sins in water…"


	3. I Never Think of the Future

Crime scene: Location where an illegal act takes place; "Scene of the crime".

John wasn't exactly sure how many things- illegal or not- Sherlock had done in this room, but he was pretty damn sure cleaning was never one of them. John can't (couldn't) count days as well as Sherlock can (could), and he never even tries (tried), but he knows he's lived in this flat for over a year. Year and a half is more likely. Almost two.

And Sherlock never, ever cleaned.

So the fact that nearly every inch of his room is covered in anything and everything from clothes to the occasional diluted chemical in a capped tube doesn't surprise John. Nothing could, at this point.

He just looked for the first five minutes. Not for anything specifically, and Lord knows he wouldn't _touch _anything- but John tilted his head when he saw the notebook.

It was small and black, moleskin. It had an elastic band over the tight side from top to bottom, holding it closed. A small ribbon was fraying at its edge, sticking out from the bottom of between two pages.

Sherlock's notebook for cases, John realized. He carried it everywhere.

Almost.

After a few minutes John stepped over to it, leaning over to pick it up from the nightstand by Sherlock's bed. It was underneath something that bounced on the wood as John let it slide away.

He turned the notebook over in his hand, and settled in on the edge of the bed.

Thumbing through the first few pages was difficult with one hand, so John knew he needed to let go of the shirt he was still clutching onto. So he piled the purple fabric into his lap and rested his elbows on his knees, leaning over slightly. The first pages were stuck together; obviously old- yellowed and tattered-

A sound brought John from his focus and he looked in the direction of the hall. It sounded like a door closing.

_Mrs. Hudson, _John shook his head and turned to the journal, thumbing through a few more pages. They were all scribbles and notes, small drawings with hard to read captions and lengthy formulas. Sherlock's handwriting could be perfect when he wanted it to be legible, but John supposed to his own mind it didn't matter, did it?

Did Sherlock even _need _notes? He remembered nearly everything he wanted to.

Another sound, this time from the kitchen. John held his breath, hoping that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't notice he was home. He didn't really want to deal with that now, not when he's just started on something _interesting_.

Well, he could look at it later. John slipped the notebook into his back jeans pocket, shifting on the edge of the bed as he did. A tight fit but John didn't really care about that right now either. There wasn't much he did care about at this moment.

Except for the set of pearls on Sherlock's nightstand.

They weren't there, John thought, the morning Sherlock decided to go out. The morning of the day he died. The nightstand was almost bare, save for the lamp and the journal now sitting in John's pocket. John knew they weren't there then.

And Sherlock was most definitely a man, John knew this too. A set of creamy-looking pearls draped over a pen (and, five minutes ago, Sherlock's notebook, why hadn't John noticed them before?) and quite possibly screaming _a woman's been here _at John made him feel uncomfortable suddenly.

Sherlock made most people uncomfortable, least of all John. This was almost new.

He wondered about why, on God's Green Earth, a pearl necklace would be in Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective's bedroom. Beside his bed. Bedroom. Women are never ever here.

Except for two, and one of them fluttered into John's mind now. The family lawyer.

Ashley? Andrea…Angela.

"_Old friend."_ Sherlock had said.

John sighed and shook his head. They must have been hers. And John will never know why a lawyer of all people (of all women) was in Sherlock's room, but-

Mycroft's voice rang in John's ears.

"_Because obviously Sherlock changed them to your benefit."_

"_Ah…your old violin," he nodded to it, "Perfect for when you were taking lesson, but I know it isn't your Stradivarius. Where is that, by the way?"_

"_I hear she has a very __interesting __file, I'm in the process of obtaining it-"_

John groaned and placed his face in his hands, leaning over.

"I'm going to kill him."

Never mind that he's already dead, John's brain added. He sat back up, palms gripping his knees.

The thing was, John didn't remember seeing the pearls (or the small book) on the nightstand that morning. So Sherlock had…moved them?

Maybe there was there some sort of…maybe a kink. Maybe Sherlock did have them, and the night before he died he all of a sudden decided to look through old notes and hold a set of pearls in his hands.

Or wear them. That's a kink too, wasn't it?

John sighed and picked the pearls up. Oh yeah, they were real. Heavy enough to tell you the difference. He slid them between his fingers, rolling the first and last bead between his thumb and forefingers.

Here's his start then. Sherlock probably left the girl's number somewhere. John could call and return them. Or have Mycroft do it. Or hell, he could sell them- not that John needed any damn money anyway, thanks to-

"Don't even think about it, I've been looking for them."

John's head snapped up and he stood, Sherlock's shirt falling to the floor.

The Woman herself.

* * *

Sixty-one days after Irene Adler's death, she came through the bedroom window to see him. A brief kiss as a thank you and a cigarette for his trouble were given; Sherlock decided they were decent enough gifts.

The cigarette was, anyway.

"_Do you ever wonder-"_

"_Wondering is a waste of time. Don't ask stupid questions." Sherlock interrupted Irene, bringing their third cigarette up to his mouth. "You can't guess around the future. You should know that."_

_Irene smiled and plucked the cigarette from Sherlock's lips, bringing it to her own. She stretched one leg over Sherlock's right one on the bed, turning to look at him. The telly from the living room lit underneath the door crack faintly. "John's probably sleeping. Get me something to eat, will you?"_

"_He is sleeping. Get it yourself." Sherlock could almost hear the faint snores from John's chair. It had been the fifth night of three hours of sleep, and John was too tired to even move as far as the bedroom. Sherlock took a deep breath._

"_Anyway," Irene shifted over and twirled a finger through Sherlock's curls. "Do you ever…think about what he'd do if you were gone?"_

"_Of course not. No one plans their own death." Sherlock scoffed. "I never think of the future, it comes soon enough."_

"_You did. Karachi." She tugged a smug smirk and took another drag before handing the cigarette back to Sherlock. "A terrorist cell? That's planning your death for sure."_

"_Dull," Sherlock exhaled before taking another drag and holding it. "They were so predictable. That wasn't me risking my life for you." He blew out a ring of smoke, as if that was proving the point._

"_Wasn't it?" Irene took the cigarette again and finished it off, grinding it into the nightstand. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked up at the ceiling._

_It was silent for a few minutes. Then he spoke._

"_The only __**simple **__way-" He looked pointedly in her direction, " to explain it is that if I died John would be __**alone**__, but if he-" He stopped then, tilting his head. Irene raised an eyebrow after a minute of silence, sighing softly._

"_Haven't even thought that far, have you?" She snaked her leg over Sherlock's other one too, and rolled overtop him. "Come up with a word then, for the __**hypothetical **__scenario."_

_Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not a dictionary."_

"_You're close enough. One word." She leaned over, gripping the headboard above them. "I might treat you well if it's a good one."_

_Sherlock blinked once, then again, and inhaled deeply. "Vexatious."_

"_Ooh, that is good, but you'll have to do better than 'bothersome'. I know you." Irene flashed a grin. "Another"._

"_Dysfunctional." Sherlock didn't miss a beat._

"_We both know you you'll __**react**_._" Irene patted Sherlock's cheek a little too hard, bringing it to a faded pink. "One more try."_

"_Impossible." Sherlock breathed out, chest moving quickly. Irene raised her eyebrows and tilted her head-and damn that woman for speaking his language because Sherlock hated explaining himself. "John dying would be __**impossible**__."_

"_Why-"_

_Sherlock snapped and tried sitting up a bit. "If you really think I'd let that happen, then you really aren't my type." But Irene only splayed a hand across his chest, gently coaxing him back down._

"_No need to get worked up, darling. I was just testing the waters. I don't think I am your type, anyway."_

"_I think you've tested them enough this year, haven't you?" He spoke quickly, and then paused. "No one's my type."_

"_Certainly not. Except…well." Irene flashed her teeth in another wide grin. "And how about you? Testing Mr. Moriarty's waters by spending quality time with one of his accomplices."_

"_You're the one that came here." Sherlock squinted his eyes and the words rolled of his tongue. "You're not an accomplice. You're lucky he hasn't killed you yet either. You're a fortunate sadist."_

"_And you a masochist. Good boy, now." Irene leaned over a bit more, sliding her hand down the headboard to just behind Sherlock's head. "I suppose I did say I'd treat you well." She lowered her lips to his roughly. Sherlock inhaled sharply and slid his fingers to root in her hair out of instinct. _

_Who plans their own death, anyway?_

_Ridiculous._

* * *

"_I never think of the future…"_

_Later, Irene muttered the words under her breath, then looked up to see his face properly. His eyes were closed. "That's Einstein, isn't it?"_

_Sherlock didn't bat an eyelash, only opening his mouth enough to murmur the words. "Clever girl. Color me impressed."_

_She sighed and rested her head back on his chest._

* * *

_In the early morning, John smelled a bit of smoke, but only faintly._

_He woke straight up and checked the kitchen first, propelling himself from his chair quickly. But no one was cooking. Nothing on fire._

_The he thought of Sherlock- and the sight of his closed bedroom door was enough cause for concern. He probably was experimenting, who knows on what-_

_But when John opened the door it was quiet, and Sherlock was in his bed. Shirtless at least, and- yes, his trousers on the floor. He was sprawled out on his front, his back moving slowly with deep breaths. There were two cigarette butts on the nightstand, long snuffed out. It explained the smell immediately._

_John decided against lecturing Sherlock today. The case has been long one; and Sherlock ran himself ragged for it. John closed the door quietly, letting Sherlock sleep for another seven hours before rousing him for some tea._

* * *

"Hello, Dr. Watson."

* * *

"I never think of the future." -Albert Einstein


	4. When She Came Back

"Hello, Dr. Watson." Irene smiled and held her hand out to John, beckoning with her fingers. "I'll be having those back now." She nodded to the necklace in his hand.

John swallowed and gripped the pearls tighter, but he wasn't sure why. "These…These are yours."

"Good job. Guess he rubbed off on you, hmm?" Her voice was thick as she stepped closer. "I didn't come to fight over them."

"Then why did you come?" John shook his head, suddenly raising his voice. "You're…you're supposed to be dead, anyway. You were dead!"

"Fooled you once before, didn't I?" Irene smirked and came to stand right before John, looking down at him. "Tell me, does he have my camera phone too? I'll bet it's here somewhere. It's the one thing he insisted on hiding from me."

"He doesn't have anything." John growls, looking up. "Don't know if you noticed, but he's dead."

There are a few minutes of silence- Irene looking at John, John trying to look through her. And then she smiled a bit sadly.

"Oh, I know that, darling." She planted a hand on his shoulder.

John took a steadying breath but didn't move other than that, weighing his options. He never slapped a woman before but now, there was a slight inclination to.

"What do you want-"

"I've told you, love. He was right, you know." Irene gently pushed on John's shoulder, leaning him back on the bed. But only a bit. "You never listen."

John's face felt hot now, as did everything else. "Ger'off," he mumbled, trying to stand but failing. Irene only pushed back further and had successfully straddled him now. "I'm not in the mood for mind games. I'm not like him."

"Are you trying to-What are you even trying to do right now?" John scoffed. "Didn't work out with him, so you thought you'd give me a try? Not everyone in the world wants to shag you, you know."

"Why on Earth," Irene dragged out the words, "Would I try to have _you_ for free when I've got a queue wrapping around this country twicebegging to _pay _me for having _them_?"

John licked his lips, feeling quite stupid. It wasn't a new feeling. "I…you tried with him."

"Tried to have dinner with him. There's a difference." She winked. "Though dessert would have been _lovely_."

John began to rack his brain now, trying to even his breaths. "So he saved you, then."

"Mmm, I don't think so. I rather think I did the saving. He was quite unexperi…well." She laughed quietly, as if there was some inside joke she only had with herself. "I never kiss and tell."

Suddenly John was on his feet and Irene staggering backwards to the door, reaching for it. He had a finger pointed at her. "That's enough out of you. Get out."

Irene laughed, the tones making John's ear hurt. "I want my pearls back first, Doctor Watson."

"_Doctor Watson _me all you like, _Miss Adler_, but you're not getting these back." John retrieved them back into his hand from the bed where they'd fallen. "And I don't have the phone. Government had it, last I heard." He knew it was a petty lie, but no damned woman (dominatrix or not) was going to get any of Sherlock's things. Even if it was hers first.

"Well," Irene stood up and smoothed her dress, sticking her chin upwards. "Maybe he wanted to keep it. For sentiment?"

"_If she'd left HIM, he would have kept it. Sentiment."_

John didn't say anything, but the silence was telling.

"Ah." She chuckled. "So it is here. Interesting."

"Get the hell out. I'm serious, I'll call-"

"I've already seen his brother this morning and Officer Lestrade's a bit busy with my last…client." She made a disgusted face, shivering. "Jim Moriarty does get so jealous."

Silence fell again, and suddenly John wished he'd gone to work today. Flashes of Moriarty flickered in his head, and then-

Sherlock's blood was running into the sink. John sat back on the bed, head feeling heavy. His vision blurred at the edges and he forced the thought of vomiting out of his mind- only to feel his stomach churn some more.

"Please, go." He spoke quietly and held the pearls out toward Irene, almost shaking them. "I don't have the phone, but take these, and _damn it_, just go."

After a moment Irene's heel clicked on the wood of the floor and she stepped forward, successfully slipping the pearls from John's hand. John could have sworn she let her hand linger on his, but then she moved back.

"Sherlock Holmes would be disappointed, I think." She rested her hand on the doorknob. "You grieving over him, he wouldn't like-"

John's voice was low and angry, breaths short. "Yeah, well, I wouldn't like him to be deader than a _doornail _but I guess I didn't get a fucking choice, did I?"

She looked down for a second, then back up.

"You'll understand it one day, I suppose. But you always a bit slower than him, so maybe I came too early."

"I'll understand what-" But by the time John even looked up from his shoes she was gone- feet rushing down the stairs to the front door.

John felt too tired to go after her.

He felt exhausted, frankly.

* * *

"Things are moving now." Siger tossed an old book to Sherlock, one he'd read hundreds of times but liked going through every now and again.

"Not fast enough," Sherlock grunted and opened the cover, the smell of the Holmes Estate filling his nostrils. "She was supposed to show him."

"You were always one or five steps ahead of everyone else, Sher." Siger chuckled and moved around the desk, closer to him. "He'll get it eventually."

Sherlock sighed and propped his feet on the desk, dropping the book in his lap. "I want him to get it _now_."

"Why?" Siger raised an eyebrow at him. "You're not going anywhere, are you?"

And with that, he left Sherlock to brood. The song he whistled felt more familiar to Sherlock now, but he couldn't be bothered to think of a name.

* * *

"John Watson?"

John raised an eyebrow at the thin man standing at his door. He had a messenger bag and thin glasses. "Yeah, that's me."

"Oh! Oh, good, hi." The man held his hand out for John to shake, so he did. "I'm Victor. Victor Trevor."

"Victor, hello." John furrowed his eyebrows. It wasn't often that anyone came to the door of 221, especially now. He didn't know any Victors. And there was only one reason strangers came to Baker Street for anymore.

But John didn't want to deal with clients just yet. "What can I…er, do for you?"

Victor bit his lip and winced, looking nervous. "I just, erm…wanted to say sorry. For your loss, and everything," He took a deep breath. "I knew Sherlock in uni."

"You did?" John tried to hold back the surprise in his voice. Anyone from Sherlock's past was interesting. "Were you friends, or…" He trailed off.

"Yeah…" Victor smiled a bit. "Sherlock didn't-"

"Oh God, sorry, come in! I'll put on some tea?" John suddenly felt a bit guilty, even though the thought of having anyone else in the flat was less than pleasant. But he held the door a bit wider anyway. "Friends, that's a new thing to hear about Sherlock-"

Really, friends?

Victor stepped back, though. "No, it's alright, really. Got a class to teach in an hour…I just got into London this week, and I heard about…" Victor cleared his throat. "Anyway, I really am sorry. You lived with him, yeah? So I know you must have been close. And I've been looking at the, uhm, blog."

_He seems too nervous to be a 'friend' of Sherlock's, _John thought. Victor seemed too…wishy-washy, as they called it. He swayed from one foot to the other, and his ratty bag and worn khakis told John enough about his living situation. Or his lack of caring, wardrobe-wise. He didn't seem too eloquent, either. Not that John's vocabulary was particularly extensive. But if you were "friends" with Sherlock Holmes, you needed to know your way around a sentence.

"You said you had a class to teach…are you a professor?" John tilted his head.

Victor nodded jerkily. "Yeah, I teach Bio Chemistry in the States. Came here for a few Eukaryotic molecular bio seminars…"

So that was it. Chemistry, or science in general? Something of that sort. They had something in common. Sherlock probably corrected a few of Victor's mistakes. Or all of them.

"Anyway, I haven't talked to Sherlock in…a while, actually." He sounded surprised at that own admission. "Had a bit of a falling out that was my doing. At least, I think." Victor laughed at himself and suddenly John felt uneasy, realizing that this man had falling outs, fights, inside _jokes_, with Sherlock. "But we exchanged letters."

What?

He sort of wanted Victor to go. Leave, right now. "Er-"

"But he never could take the blame for any of his own doings, so it was him too, I think. I bet you know all about that- Are you alright?" Concern creased Victor's forehead and he stepped closer to John, who now was digging his nails into his palm. Once he realized, he tried to loosen up a bit.

"Yeah, yeah, fine…sorry." John swallowed and feigned a smile. "Was just thinking that. He never could say anything was his own fault." He chuckled. "Whatever it was, I'm sure Sherlock…deleted it, or something. He doesn't hold too many grudges."

"I'm not stupid, Doctor Watson." Victor deadpanned at him, and John saw something in Victor's grin that made the uneasy feeling even worse; Victor had a _knowing _smile. Not just the normal smile everyone who's come into permanent contact with Sherlock has, either. It was the one John had at crime scenes, to himself- when his dates asked things about Sherlock. _"I'll bet he really drives you up the wall, eh?" _And John's knowing smile would play in. _"Oh, you've got no idea."_

John inhaled deeply and thought about it for a few seconds more. Victor had this smile too.

They had a falling out.

They were friends before that.

So how can someone like Sherlock, who "doesn't have friends" most certainly have an old friend that-

No, not now. John won't get into it now. Later.

"Uhm-"

"Sorry." John laughed half-heartedly, relaxing his stance a bit. Really, Victor seemed nice anyway- and if Sherlock and he had a big fight then Victor was probably a saner man than John in the end. He probably tried to set Sherlock straight. And knowing Sherlock (who certainly _did _hold grudges), he probably never forgave Victor.

Maybe he threw an experiment out. Maybe he told Sherlock: No more drugs.

Maybe he kept Sherlock from killing himself on a near-daily basis.

John couldn't do that.

The uneasy feeling came back again.

"I will take a rain check on the tea, another time maybe." Victor's voice was quiet, as if he knew exactly what John was thinking. "If that's alright, I mean…?"

John looked at him, the fake smile in place again. "Yeah yeah, that sounds good. How long will you be around?"

Victor pulled out a worn-looking mobile and flipped it open. "'Till the thirty-first, actually. Plenty of time to meet up. Shall I leave my number?"

"Nah, just stop by whenever you have the time." John spoke quickly, stepping back further into the doorway and wrapping his fingers around the edge of the door. "I'm always here anyway, and if I go out I'm back in an hour or so. Mrs. Hudson's the landlady, she always keeps guests for me." _Unfortunately, _John thought with a small sigh.

"Oh." Victor nods and closed his mobile, pocketing it again. "Alright then, I s'pose I'll just see you…soon, then?"

"Yeah, sounds lovely." John nodded, closing the door a bit more. He knew the plans weren't really serious anyway. "Thanks for stopping by-"

"I really am sorry, John." Victor interrupted him, looking a bit sad.

"…Me too. Got to, uhm…tea." John closed the door then, leaning against it. It took him a few moments to breathe properly.

He'd just started to walk up the stairs when Mrs. Hudson's voice stopped him.

"Who was that, John?"

"No one, old friend of-" _Seriously, though, Sherlock had friends in Uni?_

"What was that?" Mrs. Hudson stepped out by the stairs, wringing a flannel in her hands. "Didn't hear you."

"I…oh." John shrugged. "Someone Sh…Sherlock knew in Uni? A, erm…Vince, Vince Trevor." John shook his head, already realizing the name was probably wrong, but Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened.

"_Victor? _Victor Trevor?" Her lips parted in surprise.

"Oh! Erm, Victor, yes." John nodded. "Did you…know him?"

"Lovely boy, Victor! Had a bit of a falling out with him, Sherlock was hung up 'bout it-"

"Yeah he told me." John resisted the eyeroll. Mrs. Hudson knew him too? What the bloody hell, who was this guy?

"Lovely young man, he and Sherlock, they got on really well! Which should tell you about him, but he's so nice-"

"Lovely, yeah. Gathered that." John muttered under his breath, but Mrs. Hudson went on.

"Course," she thought for a minute. "Sherlock had already left school by the time I knew him and he gave me a hand with my husband. He'd come for tea after everything was done, I made him promise, you see. You could tell he wasn't eating anything, even back then."

"Mrs. Hudson, I should-" John tried to take another step up the stairs. He could really do without the anecdotes for the time being. He thought about Sherlock enough today, thank you-

"Oh! And yes, I remember now. Victor rang at the door. Knew where Sherlock was going to be because he said he 'had to use Sherlock's older brother for _something _good'" Mrs. Hudson let out a long laugh at that. "Looked right worried about Sherlock until he saw him at my dining table."

John really was done with this conversation. He didn't want to be rude, but really. "Mrs.-"

"Took very good care of Sherlock, Victor did." Mrs. Hudson nodded slowly and looked at the ground, reaching out a hand to pat John's wrist above the banister. "You both did. He never admitted it, but he needed a good taking care of now and then, didn't he?" She looked up at John then sadness in her eyes.

John swallowed and nodded once. "Yeah, he did." He took a deep breath. "You took care of him too."

Mrs. Hudson smiled a bit. "Well, I hope so." She let go of John's wrist and headed for the kitchen, and John had to flex his hand to stop the tremor running through it.

* * *

"Damn it." Sherlock woke up with a jump and a groan. "Fuck you, Victor."

Siger laughed from the other side of the room, as if he knew already. "Ruining your plans?"

Sherlock sat up and saw a few memories from university splay over the walls: Victor walking ahead of Sherlock and laughing, them sharing a cigarette on the roof, the last time they spoke. Or rather, yelled.

"I didn't want him to talk to me again." Sherlock muttered, but as with everything here in this place, he was heard.

"He's not talking to you, he's talking to John. How nice of him."

"He's a right bastard."

"He's not and you know it. He'd deserved to see you too, you know." Siger got out of his own bed and his pajamas changed to his work clothes and lab coat. "Give him some credit." Sherlock closed his eyes and the images faded on the walls.

Clean slate.

"Maybe he'll get his wish then," Sherlock stood as well, his pajamas morphing into his dress shirt and trousers. "But he'd better leave John alone."

* * *

**Notes:** Title of this chapter comes from a song of the same name, on the "When She Came Back" soundtrack. Composed by Max Richter- Beautiful album, fitting name.


	5. Romance

A few days passed, and John had to do the wash again. Why put off what you can do today, he thought to himself as he grabbed some socks from the floor.

Especially when you were putting off organizing your dead best friend's things.

He sorted through some dark items and decided those needed done first, before remembering his jeans by the bed. When he picked them up, they felt heavy for some reason. What…after rooting in the pockets, he remembered why.

_Oh._

John pulled the small notebook from his back pocket, turning it over in his hands.

He set it on his bedside table, taking a few moments to look at the cover before going to finish the wash.

"Hello, I wasn't sure if today would be alright…but you did say any day I could stop by."

John coughed in surprise when he opened the door. He'd almost forgotten.

Almost.

"Victor, right- Sorry, do come in. 'S a bit messy, been trying to go through some things." He opened the door and led Victor up the steps.

Victor laughed as he sat down in John's chair across from him, after the kettle was on. "You were friends with Sherlock Holmes; it doesn't surprise me that you're trying to clean up."

John nodded, forcing himself to chuckle. "Yes, well. He certainly knew how to disarray a flat." That much was true.

Victor spoke smoothly, right after John. "Organized chaos, I'd call it. He pretended to be offended, but I think he secretly liked the name."

It was an effortless conversation from there, really. But John still felt uneasy.

"So…" He lifted his cup and took a sip of the tea. "Were you dorm mates, or…"

"Oh heavens, no!" Victor laughed heartily, and John raised his brows. "We'd have killed each other-" John swallowed thickly and Victor cleared his throat. "Well. It wouldn't have gone well if we were." He cleared his throat a second time and took a sip of his own drink before speaking again. "Although we might as well have been, we spent so much time together."

"How did you become friends?" John sat up a bit, going in for another sip.

It was a moment before Victor spoke, as if he wasn't sure he should say. "My dog bit him."

John choked a bit, before wiping his mouth. "B-Bit him. What?"

"Yeah, that's the usual reaction." Victor waved his hand. "Lovely girl, but she wasn't good with strange people…and well, Sherlock fits that description too perfectly, yeah?" John chuckled. "She went for his leg as he walked past me right before school- I'd decided to take her on a walk around campus before my folks took her back home. His leg was pretty bad, he stayed in bed for a week."

"I'll bet he brooded about it, too." John grinned, imagining a young Sherlock bedridden because of some small animal, of all things.

Victor chuckled and looked into his tea, and there it was again, the knowing smile. "He sucked out all the attention out of the room, even when he didn't try. I checked in on him the next day when I found out what dorm he was in. We discussed possible majors and the professors we heard most about so far. I ended up coming in again that night, and every day after."

John swallowed a large gulp of his tea down, imagining the two of them laughing together. It was a surreal image, and yet…

"Was he the same back then that he is now?"

"Well, I hadn't talked to him in six years, so…the best I can say is, yes." Victor smirked. "He was moody and quiet most days, and could rip you a new one if you pissed him off." He shrugged a bit. "We both liked chemistry a fair deal, so we had that in common. But we were on the opposite end of the spectrum in every other department."

"Hard to believe Sherlock would stay friends with someone so blatantly normal." John caught himself saying out loud. "Sorry."

"Believe me, no offense taken." Victor laughed and glanced around the setting room. "I was surprised as well, actually. But I knew he liked my tongue-in-cheek humor and we could insult each other at a seconds' notice without causing any real damage. Sherlock could say the worst thing about me, but he'd do it in that _way_, and I never thought twice about it."

"That…way." John felt his eyebrows raise again and Victor chuckled.

"Well, you live with him. You know the way." Victor tilted his head a bit.

"I…know, I don't think…" John's cheeks felt warm and he wished he hadn't asked. "That's not-"

Victor burst into laughter again. "No no! Oh God, well." He cleared his throat. "Sexualities aside, Sherlock showed his appreciation for others in a special tone, you know? Or maybe it was just me." The color of Victor's cheeks tinged pink. "I mean, he could tell you to shut the fuck up but he said it in a tone that you knew he didn't mean it."

John exhaled quickly, setting his cup in the saucer. "No, you're right. He did say things like that. It was the only way you might get an actual compliment from him." Except in the weeks before he died, John's brain reminded him. He bit back a sigh. "Sorry, I didn't mean to assume you two were…you know. Together or anything. But we were just friends."

"Well I could care less, mate." Victor waved his hand in dismissal. "I mean, I'm gay, but I don't think it mattered who you wanted to shag, boy or girl. Sherlock was usually at the top of everyone's list as long as I knew him."

John laughed at that. "He probably knew it, too. Used it to his full advantage, as long as _I _knew him."

"He might have…recently, but when he was younger you'd be surprised at how inobservant he'd be. For the prize genius he was."

There was a few moments of silence, and Victor looked deep in thought, so John spoke quietly. "So he never showed interest back then? The way you talk about him, it just seems like…well, you'd know better than anyone else, I guess. No one he knew here seemed to understand him."

Victor nodded slowly, thinking. "It was obvious he had no…well…" He smiled a bit, looking as confused about the whole subject as John was. Apparently he'd never really know what Sherlock's deal was. "Everyone assumed we were together back then, and Sherlock never really denied it, but he wouldn't have anyone, I don't think. They all suspected I was the most gay you could get." He chuckled. "But Sherlock was just…Sherlock. He might snog someone but you never knew if he actually enjoyed it or not. Unless you were lucky. Romance sure as hell wasn't in his repertoire."

The look on his face forced John to take a deep breath. "Ah, so you were lucky, a bit."

"I was extremely lucky." Victor spoke quickly and then looked at John. "But it wasn't like that. You consider yourself to be lucky if you're breathing the same air as him, don't you? Especially if an hour passes without any rude comment about your life choices."

"That's true, very true." John laughed a little.

"It's the same with anything else. Sherlock never seemed interested in sex or anything, which was odd for kids our age. He said it was a distraction for the brain, and why would he do that to himself?" Victor smiled a bit. "But there was some nervousness too, I think. He'd probably been gilted or something. Maybe worse." The knowing look came again on Victor's face, and John wondered what could have happened that made Sherlock like that. He'd always wondered anyway, and why did Victor have to be more aware than he?

"Anyway," Victor spoke up, interrupting John's thoughts, "Sherlock was such an interesting person and I was lucky to call myself his friend. Even if it did mean picking him up at four am from the city's most ungodly corners. And forcing him to eat a decent meal. It was all worth it."

"Right on that." John spoke into his tea, and it was silent for a few minutes.

When Victor spoke again it was tentatively. "His brother's the one that told me."

"Really?" John's shock leaked through his word and Victor smiled a bit.

"Yeah, I was surprised too…but I think Myc knew I wouldn't have heard, being in the States and all. Not for a while, anyway. I'm grateful." John was still trying to get used to Mycroft's nickname when Victor spoke again. "I saw the articles and such…saw that you…you were there. I'm sorry about that."

The air went out of John's lungs and he set his saucer on the table beside the chair. "Ah….yeah."

"I hope you won't be offended by this, John," Victor set his cup down as well, watching John intently. "But, erm. I know that you'll appreciate seeing Sherlock in his final moments." He took a breath, as if preparing himself. "And Sherlock probably appreciated you being there too." He caught John's eyes and there was something John couldn't place, but he understood what Victor meant. "I can tell you two were close enough that he would have preferred it that way."

John's chest felt tight and the images washed over his mind again. He could smell Sherlock's blood, his heartbeat pulsed in John's fingers-

He hated watching Sherlock Holmes die. He hated hearing it, he hated _feeling _it.

But if there was anything he'd do for the man, it was to be there for his last breath. John got to do that. No one else.

And Sherlock had said…

Well, he must have truly appreciated it, right?

John being there. Watching the bright light fade from Sherlock's eyes. The only Consulting Detective in the world, as he was leaving it, spoke to John Watson and John Watson alone.

"_Very sincerely__ yours__, John."_

Victor's voice cut into his thoughts. "But he was probably pissed he didn't make it. He so would have loved to prove a point." He laughed heartily, and sighed happily as he relaxed into John's chair a bit. Looking off into the room somewhere.

There it was. John saw it there, in Victor's face, his attitude, whatever it was that could have gotten Sherlock's attention.

It was his energy.

Probably his wit, too.

* * *

When Victor got back to his hotel room, he didn't even bother to make tea for himself. He checked the clock; ten-twenty pm. He let out a sigh and slipped his loafers off before heading to the bed. Two lectures today, that talk with John…and another class in the morning. He really needed to sleep.

But as he tried to drift off, apparently Victor's memories had different ideas. They kept his mind reeling more than he wanted to. Not that thinking of Sherlock was a bad thing to be kept up by. It never was, after all these years.

He finally opted for tea, sleepily waiting for the kettle and shifting from one foot to another. After it was poured and he sat down with the telly dimly lighting the room, he took a sip.

A shadow casted over the bed, its original occupant from behind Victor. Everything in his mind told Victor to be frightened- because if someone strange was in your hotel room, it never really ended well, did it?

But his body didn't tense. It felt oddly relaxed, content. He felt calm about whoever it was in the room. He watched the shadow for a few seconds, eyes running over the lines it made over his bed.

But before he could turn around to see, the shadow was gone- as was the person it belonged to.

The room felt empty again, and Victor sighed. He needed more sleep than he thought.

He didn't even bother to finish the tea.

* * *

Victor Trevor hasn't made an appearance in the BBC Sherlock Series, but it is in all my head canons that he was Sherlock's Holmes' first real friend. Trevor appears in the Arthur Conan Doyle canon in "The Adventure of the Gloria Scott", when Holmes retells the story of his first detective work to Watson.

Title comes from Olafur Arnalds' song by the same name, "Romance".


	6. At the Grave

Victor sees a ghost, and Siger gets to be a father again.

* * *

**John Hamish Watson**

Sherlock ran his fingers over the etched letters on the tombstone, gaze narrowed.

Everyone around him was sad, upset, crying.

There were John's children, one son and a daughter, holding hands. Harry's face was red from the cold, but her eyes were white- no yellowing in the edges, and she held herself straighter than before. Sherlock saw no wife, but he already could assume what happened to her. She probably dies young, an illness of some sort. John would have stayed true to her, the same way he would have to Sherlock.

Or at least, Sherlock hoped he would.

A family. Seemingly normal. That's good, at least, Sherlock thought. He took a look around and saw Lestrade, much older but still standing erect- he was in the back of the group, arms folded. He saw Molly fighting back tears earlier. She couldn't bring herself to the funeral. No surprise there.

Sherlock didn't know who anyone else was. It was unnerving.

He circled the group once more and decided it was enough. He touched the headstone one more time before going back.

"You've been wearing yourself very thin, you know." Siger's voice woke Sherlock from a restless sleep, and he cleared his throat.

"I wasn't gone for long this time. I wanted to see when it would be." Sherlock sat up a bit and rolled over, his limbs aching. The pain in his chest grew back in small doses, but he pushed it away.

Siger sighed. "Things can change Sherlock, even now. You might have not changed John's death-"

"With all due respect I don't stay with you for your constant advice and rules, father." Sherlock snapped at him and curled up in his bed. He felt guilty, but only just. "Or maybe you could have lived long enough to give me some fatherlyadvice. That might have been nice."

The following silence made Sherlock feel guiltier, but instead of leaving Siger only walked to the bed and touched Sherlock's shoulder. "You'll never get to visit anyone if you make these pointless trips. You know that."

"Yes." Sherlock mumbled. "Yes, I know…" But he doesn't _care_, he just wants to be able to see anyone he want at anytime. Really, it's not too big of a request, is it? He gave his life up for it.

"You should rest today." Siger's voice softened and he pulled his hand away. "I'll read to you later, if you'd like. Like I used to."

Suddenly, Sherlock's bed felt very big.

"Or maybe I'll tell you a story." Siger smiled and patted Sherlock's head, his hand smushing the curls down like he did long ago. It made Sherlock sigh contently. "Victor dreamed of you tonight."

Sherlock rolled over and looked up at his father, his sparse eyelashes framing his small green eyes. "Did he?"

"Yes," Siger nodded and sad on the edge of the bed, and started talking.

Mozart's Rondo sounded its way into Victor's hotel room again, but he wasn't complaining about it. He hummed along for a few bars.

He rolled over in bed, stretching his hand out, and half expected Sherlock's fingers to meet his. But of course…

Then he rolled back over to the outside of the bed and-

"Jesus!"

Sherlock was peering over the edge over the bed at him, eyes piercing. They were green, but not as vibrant as Victor remembered. Victor sat up on the edge of the bed, looking up at him as Sherlock stood, breathing hard.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour.

Finally, Sherlock spoke quietly. His voice rasped a bit, as if his throat was sore. It made a soft gurgling."'Lo."

He stood up slowly, eyes never leaving Victor's.

Victor forced himself to breathe in before saying anything, and he couldn't help the smile that grew on his face. "Hello, love."

Sherlock smiled at that, eyes glinting. His hand reached out and before he knew it, Victor's face was pressed into his side, inhaling. Sherlock threaded his fingers through Victor's hair. They stayed like this for a few moments, until the ache that had settled in his chest jolted him suddenly, and Sherlock had to pull away.

"I…sorry." Victor shook his head, and Sherlock sat beside him.

"Not…you. Just the…there are rules. Or whatever you'd like to call them." He gestured to his body once and Victor took him in, up and down.

There was a dark spot over Sherlock's heart that made him swallow back a sound. It was morbid- not graphically so, but the image made Victor feel uneasy. It felt wrong, something ugly on the plane of natural beauty Sherlock had. A dark spot over someone's heart wasn't supposed to look normal, was it? No.

"Right…"

"Not too much physical contact," Sherlock continued to explain, "Or the pain comes back. I keep coming back early so I never fully heal-"

"Don't waste your time explaining yourself to me, Sherlock." Victor smiled at him, resisting the urge to grab his hand. "I know I'm dreaming, but I'll let myself enjoy it."

"Not dreaming," Sherlock spoke quietly- and Victor believed him right away, because if Sherlock said it then it was true. Always.

Suddenly, Victor remembered. "John…"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I'm not here to talk about him, Vict-"

"Will you be seeing him soon? He's dreadful."

Silence. Sherlock's eyes flickered down. It made Victor's chest ache, but he spoke anyway.

"I barely know him and I can tell he's dreadful. He's not one for masking his emotions like you were." He looked away from Sherlock and fiddled with his fingers.

"I…" Sherlock took a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. "It's not the right time yet."

Victor looked back at Sherlock, understanding. "Ah, so it was for him. You dying."

"Vic." Sherlock gave him a pitiful look. _Don't do that. _

"Ah, I know you would have done it for me too…maybe." Victor shrugged his shoulders. "He's different, I can tell."

"He's not as clever as you," Sherlock offered, and Victor chuckled.

"Nah, I knew that right off the bat. D'ya leave a good puzzle for him, then?"

One look of Sherlock's face and Victor knew that was the case. "I'll bet you made it difficult, too." He grinned.

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand though his hair. "I never planned on it being this way."

"Well I never planned on your ghost showing up in my hotel room, but we all have our issues." Victor shot back and Sherlock actually laughed. It almost sounded far away, his laughter.

"Don't say _ghost_. It sounds morbid."

"You're dead, Sherlock. I don't need to use the word ghost for it to sound morbid." And then they were both laughing together, Sherlock's shoulders shaking and Victor leaning over, holding his stomach. Just like it used to be.

Until it went quiet, and Victor's mind soaked his own words in.

"Oh hell, Sherlock." His hand twitched and he moved it to touch the other man's face, but paused.

"'S alright." Sherlock leaned forward, so Victor moved again. His cheek was cool and sharp, and Victor had a hard time biting back any sudden tears that threaten to leave.

"You're bloody outrageous, doing that to yourself." Victor sighed and Sherlock leaned loser into the touch of Victor's thumb swiping over his skin. "I'll probably never forgive you."

"Add it to the list, then." Sherlock ignored any pain he could be feeling at the moment (delete, delete), and focused only on Victor's skin. "Number thirty-two, got yourself shot by a psychopath, and died. On purpose."

Victor chuckled and he listened to Sherlock's ragged breathing.

Is that how he sounded when John found him?

"We were to live in Paris." His voice wavered and he tilted his head.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded slowly, looking down. "We could still do that…later."

"What, when I meet you in the afterlife?" Victor laughed and looked away again, feeling guilty. "I'd never take you away from John, after what you did for him."

Sherlock sighed loudly. "You act as if Moriarty wouldn't threaten your life too. And I can be in more than one place at a time, there. It's…" _Heavenly_, Sherlock held back the word.

"You can't have your cake and eat it too, Sherlock." Victor shook his head and kissed Sherlock's temple, lingering for a second. "But I'll entertain the idea, I suppose."

"Do that." And then Sherlock is quiet again, because there is nothing else to say except for the obvious. And he never did that.

So Victor did it instead. "I miss you."

Sherlock looked at him, meeting his eyes. "I know." He smiled a bit, and Victor felt calm again.

"D'you think we could have…" Victor wondered aloud, "I mean, we could have been close again, yeah?" Suddenly all the regrets he had when Sherlock was alive crowded his mind.

"I think…" Sherlock took a deep breath, "That we were much better where we were, instead of forcing a normal relationship on each other."

"Yeah." Victor nodded, grateful for the response. "Yeah, I think so too."

"Sherlock?" Siger opened the bedroom door quietly, and Sherlock's sniffling quieted but only for a moment.

"Mmm?" He sniffed and curled up a bit, back facing Siger. "It's nothing, never mind." He traced his finger along the pattern on his childhood sheets.

"Did you see Victor today?" Siger's voice was quiet and he turned the light off, so that just Sherlock's night lamp illuminated the room a bit. He moved closer to the bed, slowly.

Sherlock didn't respond to the question, only sniffling again, but because he couldn't help it. It's all Siger needed to confirm his suspicions.

"Here, let me tell you a story." And he laid down behind Sherlock on the too-small bed, curling around him and stroking Sherlock's unruly curls. Sherlock's quiet sobs calmed a bit and he made a soft noise.

"Which one would you like to hear, Sher?"

Sherlock's voice was small as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Tell me about the most foolish traveler in the world, Father."

_Lay me down gently, lay me down low,_  
_I fear I am broken and won't mend, I know._

* * *

_Notes: Title from the song "At the Grave", written by Abel Korzeniowski. He's most known for his work on the 'A Single Man" score. It's a beautiful album- all violins and feelings. One of my favorites, and perfect for any Sherlock Holmes-related work. Go listen!_


	7. Dance for Me, Wallis

**_He's always known the music speaks for them, but why doesn't Sherlock understand now? _**

_**Sherlock learns a lesson about partnership. And maybe, about love.**  
_

* * *

_There was a song Sherlock used to play when he was a child, and Father would listen._

_He'd adjust Sherlock's stance as needed, told him when he was holding the bow just a bit too tightly._

_And finally, when Sherlock had the song just right, his mother would play the piano._

Violet Holmes was not a busy woman, anymore. She was still sharp, though. Sharper than any old woman with nothing to do, anyway. Quicker than Mycroft on a good day, and Sherlock her best.

It only took Mycroft walking three steps into the setting room to tell her that her youngest was dead.

Not that she didn't have a feeling before.

"I'm very sorry, Mummy." Mycroft's voice was somber and quiet as he laid a hand on her shoulder. Affection wasn't often traded in the Holmes family, but she didn't mind so much now. She was getting older.

Violet took a deep breath in and turned to face him. "Uncover and dust the piano, would you, darling? I feel like playing something."

"Yes."

_It was Sherlock's connection to the world; His tether to life, anchor to the outside, the only bond he had to normalcy. It was the way he told people he was sad or happy- And even anger too, could be portrayed on the strings is he concentrated enough._

_If he didn't know what to say, the letters of the notes spelled it out for him._

"It's very hard to concentrate when you're whistling like that constantly." Sherlock muttered loud enough for his father to hear as he wrote something down in his notebook.

"As if you can't filter something you don't want to hear." Siger only chuckled and started whistling again, then paused. "Besides, you used to love when I whistled."

"That was different. I was younger, and not as intelligent. And much harder to annoy."

Siger chuckled again. "You take your music for granted, you know. You always only played for yourself."

Sherlock furrowed his brows and sat up. "For myself? What difference does that make?"

Siger was quiet for a few moments.

"I suppose you wouldn't understand."

"I understand just fine, Father. I played for John almost every day he asked me too. Some days he didn't need to ask-"

"Did John play an instrument, Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock scoffed, "No, that is beside the-"

"Then John never played for you. You never played anything together."

Sherlock sighed, resigning himself from the conversation. "I can see your old age is showing, even in this place."

Siger let out a long sigh swiveled in his chair, looking almost like Sherlock did when he was younger. Thinking, letting his mind wander off.

"Tell me something, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, realizing he was going to have to endure the rest of the conversation whether he liked it or not. He felt the atmosphere change in the room, morphing into the same one from years ago- when Sherlock would recite formulas in his mind while Siger rambled on about something uninteresting.

Sherlock was sure Siger wouldn't let him be distracted now, as he spoke. "What did you and John do best together, while you were alive?"

Sherlock thought about it for two seconds. "Cases. He thought of anything I didn't." He found himself smiling, seeing John running beside him during A Study in Pink, then The Blind Banker-but Siger's words interrupted the images on the walls. Sherlock sighed.

"Would you ever try to solve a case without him, here?"

"Good God, no." Sherlock sounded appalled, and Siger laughed.

"But you have every resource here for your needs. You could solve all of the cold cases in the world, all by yourself." He watched Sherlock, who was watching the tiles on the ceiling above him. John pointing out something on a corpse Sherlock didn't notice, making a cup of coffee for them both on an all-night quest for information.

"It wouldn't be the same." Sherlock spoke quietly, and shook his head. The movies faded instantly.

"Right." Siger nodded and went back to his work at the table across from Sherlock, with no further explanation.

"Was there an actual point to that?" Sherlock bit out the words. "Or were you just trying to make me realize something I already knew?"

"Both, I guess," Siger grinned knowingly. "But I'm not going to tell you which is which."

Sherlock huffed and leaned over his table.

_And if Sherlock was ever so lucky; _

_No one would notice as he creeped down the stairs late at night, and he would make it all the way to the music room's doorway. _

_He loved to watch Mother and Father play together- he could watch for hours, if they let him. There was something so grown-up about the situation; Father would sway behind Mother as her fingers moved gracefully over the keys, and Sherlock felt like they were talking without words._

_They didn't talk much, Mother and Father. It wasn't their…area. They only occasionally touched and kissed- Sherlock saw Father embrace Mother after her mother died, and there was the time he had walked in on them kissing. But only the one time, and the way he was scolded for barging in on them made Sherlock wonder if kissing was a forbidden activity. As if it was another thing on the list of subjects that the Holmes just didn't speak of. Or think of, even._

_So unsurprisingly, words didn't seem fill the void of touching for Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. That was okay, they told Sherlock. Mother explained that everyone had their own way of showing love. That everyone's way was different, and that was fine, all fine. _

_And it was when Sherlock saw Mother and Father play together that he understood. He could hear it in the music._

_For them, the music spoke all the words they needed to say._

_Just like they did for Sherlock._

"That's why you don't play here." Sherlock leaned against the doorway of their library a few days later, watching as Siger turned a page over in his book.

"What is?" Siger spoke in an unknowing manner that prompted Sherlock to roll his eyes.

"You're waiting for Mother." Sherlock sounded apologetic now, as if he was actually sorry he didn't realize sooner. "If you played now…"

"Wouldn't be the same." Siger echoed Sherlock's words from their previous conversation.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and looked at the piano in the corner of the room.

Siger didn't even look up. "I made it for her, in my first year here."

"Mmm." Sherlock walked over to it and ran his hand over the edge. Dust collected on the tips of his fingers, and he rubbed them together. The piano's wood was dark and cherry, like the one in their home. But it was different, Sherlock thought. There were etchings of words on every side. He thought of trying to read the messages, but stopped himself. It felt too much of an invasion of privacy.

Not that he paid much attention to that before, but for some reason…

Sherlock finally spoke. "Well, your whistling's terrible." His words came out casually and he picked out a book, as Siger laughed. He sat down at his father's feet and began to read as the fireplace lit itself, and Jon's voice drawled on in Sherlock's head as he read his words.

"_When I first met Sherlock, he told me my life story…"_

"_I'm just saying, it's all fine."_

"_I know it's fine."_

* * *

_Chapter Title from the song "Dance for Me, Wallis" on the "W.E." Soundtrack by Abel Korzienowski._


	8. Inborn or Oblivious, Take Your Choice

**Clue is the magic word, but you have to look in the right place.**

**John is reminded of something.**

* * *

Victor Trevor had been long gone by the time John remembered about him again.

And it wasn't until he opened a red envelope from the post, with a Christmas card inside.

_Hope all's well with you. Happy Christmas!_

_Victor Trevor_

Victor's mobile number was beneath the two written lines, in barely legible handwriting. It vaguely resembled Sherlock's writing, actually. John tried not to think about that too much.

_I guess I should send something back, _John thought as he checked the American address on the envelope. It won't be in time for Christmas, but maybe right after New Year's.

It's only polite, right?

So John went over to the box by his chair and leaned over to go through it. Inside, some Christmas decorations from last year that he didn't even bother putting up, and some leftover cards. He smiled a bit, remembering buying the pack the previous year, and Sherlock's reaction.

* * *

"_Hey, I need you to help me fill these cards out this week." John set a bag on their table, pulling out the card box._

"_For whom?" Sherlock made a face, leaning back over his microscope._

"_You know, for people we like. Or don't hate." John chuckled. "Whichever you prefer."_

"_I don't need to send cards out to people I'll probably see on Christmas Eve." Sherlock huffed. "You're making me co-host a party of all things, and those are the only people I'll need to wish anything to for the holidays."_

"_Well…" John thought. "What about your parents?"_

_Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Mycroft will take care of that."_

"_You're not going to see them at all for the holidays?" John started unpacking the bag, stuffing some cans into the cupboard. "What a rubbish son you are." He chuckled a bit._

"_I don't see you volunteering to see Harry this Christmas." Sherlock snapped. "Or even bothering to contact your mother to tell her you're even home from Afghanistan."_

_John stopped moving immediately, a shiver running its course down his arms._

"_In fact," Sherlock said, "we both know you're throwing the party to avoid your family anyway, so let's leave the subject of my family alone."_

"_That's not the only reason." John spoke calmly, reminding himself that sometimes Sherlock can't help it. And he did start the conversation first. "It's our first Christmas together…well, the first one as flatmates, and having a get-together could be nice. It could be…fun."_

_Sherlock only huffed again in response as he made a few notes in his journal._

_John decided to test the waters, going back to the Tesco bag. He avoided Sherlock's eyes, as he usually did with these subjects. Sometimes Sherlock didn't think too much about talking seriously when John was casual about it. "You've never told me 'bout your family, anyway."_

"_There isn't much for me to tell you." Sherlock turned one of the knobs on the microscope, muttering._

"_Yeah, but I mean…" John shrugged. "What about your parents?"_

"_What about them, John?" Sherlock sighed._

_John smiled a bit, grateful that at least Sherlock wasn't totally shutting him out. "Well I don't know anything about them. What do they do?"_

"_My mother is a retired government worker, though her influence on the British peoples hasn't lessened at all. My father doesn't do anything."_

"_I…oh." That seemed like an odd response. "Well, where do they live?"_

"_The Holmes estate is in Devon."_

_Estate? "How long has-"_

"_Ugh, to what end, John? Shall I give you their contact information and blood types as well? Would you like their IQs? Allergies?" Sherlock finally looked at John, suddenly exasperated. His face was tinged pink, and John swallowed._

"_I don't mean to upset you, Sherlock." Suddenly he felt guilty. "I mean it's just what mates do, talk about our families. I dunno." John shrugged and pulled the last few items from the shopping bag. _

_Sherlock was quiet for a few moments, watching John as he moved about the kitchen. Finally he spoke. "You don't have any real interest in my family. You're just being polite. Why must people go through the task of listening to other people's life stories if they don't actually care to hear them?" He shook his head._

"_Sherlock, I'm not asking for your life story. I just want to know a bit about your parents." John laughed this time, unable to help it. "And I do actually care, you know. Me asking about your family is not a task. Not everyone fakes caring."_

"_I do." Sherlock shrugged and John laughed again, harder this time. When he caught a glance of the other man he was smiling into the microscope._

"_Yeah, well, you're wired different I guess." John started balling the bag up in his hands._

"_Differently."_

"_What?" John furrowed his brows._

"_I'm wired different__**ly**__. Your grammar is appalling most days." Sherlock wasn't smiling anymore, but the corner of his lips quirked just a bit._

_John grinned. "Well, at least you admit it."_

_He went into the living room and flipped the telly on._

* * *

_Two hours went by, the conversation obviously still fresh inside Sherlock's head. John could feel the tension but decided to wait it out. Sherlock would talk when he was ready. If he ever was ready, anyway._

"_My father died when I was seventeen." Sherlock kept his eyes on the screen of his laptop as he spoke, and John turned his head to look at him from his chair. Sherlock was on the sofa, legs crossed with the computer in his lap. He looked serious._

"_Oh…" John wasn't sure what to say. He knew he couldn't speak too empathetically, because it would shut Sherlock off again. As if he was being a fake, or pitying Sherlock. And then Sherlock would put that wall up and would brush John off for a week._

_He decided to go with questioning. Asking Sherlock questions was always the best route. It gave Sherlock the power to give however much information he pleased, though sometimes it wasn't always true. _

_Somehow John felt he wouldn't lie tonight. "Do you want to say what happened?"_

"_He was murdered." Sherlock still kept his eyes on the screen, though he wasn't typing or browsing the page at all. John sucked in a breath. "My father had proved a man's informational journals to be inaccurate, and was working on disproving a few of his theories, publicly. The man found out…and he came to our home."_

"_Wh…Oh." John took a deep breath, trying not to sound too…sorry again. But he had to say something. "That must have been hard, for the family."_

"_Obviously. It was two decades ago." Sherlock clicked his tongue and something changed in his face, though John couldn't place it. He still stared at the screen. John looked away, thinking of a family story to offer in Sherlock's place. _

_Sherlock looked up from the laptop with his eyes, studying John. He spoke again, a little more slowly. "I…saw it happen. I was there, in the room."_

_This time John's head quickly turned to see Sherlock again and their eyes met. __**Christ**__, John thought as he licked his lips. There was nothing you could offer in place of that information. Nothing else you could say. _

_How do you console that?_

_It certainly explained a few things, now that he thought about it. The way Sherlock acted a few times this year, something he'd said when John came home to find him a little more than high, and as far as John knew it wasn't even a danger night. _

"_It's hereditary, John, nothing can be done about it. Just ask my mother."_

_And then Sherlock grew silent for three hours, only staring straight ahead and working a pattern with his fingers, over and over. He made no attempt to answer John's questions, or even acknowledge John's presence._

_John assumed that Sherlock meant the drugs, to be honest. Maybe his mother had some issues too? And until Mycroft stormed into the flat and took Sherlock with him for the weekend with no explanation, John wasn't sure if he should call 999, or call Mycroft himself._

_Mycroft texted John back after he left, when John wasn't sure what to do. Mycroft was even speaking…or texting, humanly. His care was showing. It was all too bizarre. _**I'm sorry, John, but I won't tell you something Sherlock hasn't**_. _**Mycroft Holmes**

**He would know right away and he'd probably worry that you'd think differently of him. He will return home when he is better. Mycroft Holmes**

_But how could this make John feel differently of Sherlock? It wasn't his fault his father was murdered._

_But Sherlock did focus on his work, in his entirety. It was his life. John licked his lips again and looked to see Sherlock still staring at the screen of his laptop, eyes blank._

"_I'm sorry, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock's eyelids fluttered twice and he watched John for a moment, as if he wasn't sure John was serious. He narrowed his gaze and sat up a bit before looking back at his screen, starting to type now._

"_So am I."_

_John swallowed and looked back at the telly, scratching his neck. "Mum would kill me if she knew I was back home. Dad would make crack some comment about getting shot, and only being a medic anyway."_

"_I know that." Sherlock typed again onto his keyboard and the air in the flat changed, suddenly. John felt relieved as Sherlock shut the laptop and stood. "Dinner?"_

_Calling Sherlock stoic would be a compliment. John was sure of it._

"_Starving."_

* * *

_It's been a year today,_ John thinks as he rolls over in his bed- In Sherlock's bed, actually, in the near-clean room that John has spent months living in. _It's been a year._

He sighs softly into the pillow Sherlock used to fold beneath his head when he slept, one wrist dangling over the edge of the bed as he softly snored while napping. Because Sherlock Holmes didn't sleep, he napped. He took the opportunity of dozing for a few hours, leaving a soft scent of chemicals in between the threads, weaved into the fabric of his pillowcase. Some mornings John woke up and the scent lingered in his nostrils, comforting.

Other mornings, the flat smelled like nothing at all.

_It's been a year today, _John thinks as his legs swing over the side of the bed and his feet plant themselves onto the hardwood floor- nearly clean, though John can picture all of the things Sherlock left there before. The piles of papers John never did gather up the courage to read through- the family photos John never thought Sherlock would be complacent enough to actually pose for. _It's been a year_, he thinks again as he stands and grabs his phone, which he barely uses anymore anyway. Just for Harry's calls and Lestrade's occasional text.

_It's been a year since Sherlock died._ The sentence stops John's movement just as he makes it to the bedroom door, knuckles whitening on the doorknob when he pulls the door closed behind him. Any trace of Sherlock is gone now- no smell, no papers, nothing but the wisp of an image in John's mind that replays over and over again: Red on white, the colors of Sherlock's eyes fading before him. The chemical smell fading away. The beat of Sherlock's heart thudding quieter, just so, beneath John's hand.

He has repeated the sentence in his mind, before this. (_It's been six months, it will be nine months next week, it will be a year two weeks from now, it will be a year tomorrow- Fuck, it's midnight. It's been. It's been a year._) He's said it out loud, into the silence of every room in their flat (_his _flat, John reminds himself with a tight swallow and a nod)- John has spoken, heard, thought, and felt the statement no less than a hundred, than a thousand, then three, _uncountable_ times in the past year. It was something that unwelcomingly reminded John every few minutes, snaked its way into John's mind when he wasn't entirely focused, when he saw a picture- When he thought he heard Sherlock's voice in the next room, or the heels of Sherlock's shoes on the stairs; It scratched against John's brain like the bow of Sherlock's violin on the strings. It ate away at John's poise. It ate away at his heart.

John could never be stoic, he realized. His heart was going to grip this- too tightly, even; a lifetime of pain he'll bury underneath a fake acceptance of Sherlock's death.

He'll never stop telling himself that Sherlock is dead. But he'll never believe himself, either.

_It's been a year since Sherlock died, _he thinks, _which may be the worst year of my life so far._

And because John can't do anything else, he slides down to the floor, his back against the door- and crying is the only thing he knows, just for a while.

* * *

"Do you know what's funny about all of this, Doctor Watson?"

John nearly jumped when the voice of Irene Adler sounded into his living room from the kitchen- John had been sitting in the same spot for two hours. How did she-

"It's that you never even bothered to look where it mattered."

John's gaze narrowed and he found himself standing up, stepping forward to see Irene- who was now sitting at their kitchen table, an apple in her hand with a chunk bitten out of it. She looked up at him with a devilish grin on her face, and John had nothing to do but stand there, staring at her. He said nothing to her for a few moments, flexing his hands and thinking of why she would be here.

"Did…Did someone send you?" He swallowed and shifted his balance from left foot to right foot.

You could say that the look on Irene's face when he asked that was almost _proud_, and she stood up from her chair to make her way closer to John. His breaths grew shallower, unsure of what he even meant by the question himself- but suddenly, he needed to know the answer.

Her smile was knowing- knowing like Victor's, like Mrs. Hudson's, like Mycroft's when he and Sherlock got into a tiff and he made some sort of quiet threat to Sherlock that had Sherlock pissed off. Irene's look spelled something out John couldn't see.

Yet.

"You could say that," She said, and patted john's arm gently. "I see Sherlock's room is clean. Good on you."

"Didn't allow you in there, but thanks." John couldn't lift the edginess from his voice, because he recently realized that every time this woman came to their flat, the longer she was there the more irritated John became. And wasn't that ridiculous, he thought, because she's probably visited more now than before Sherlock died.

"But I'm wondering why you haven't gotten to where you're supposed to be yet." Irene sighed and tutted at John, making him wrinkle his nose. He thought it was a move he learned from Sherlock, though he couldn't be sure.

"And just where am I suppose to be?" John asked.

Irene only grinned wider, guiding John back to his chair and sitting him down again. "I guess you'll know when you find it. When you see it."

"See _what_?" John snapped and turned his head to see her. "You think you can just barge into my flat and give me all these inconspicuous clues-"

"Ah, ah! That's the key word, isn't it?" Irene chuckled to herself and patted John's arm again, a little too condescendingly. "Clues. He loved them, didn't he?"

John put his head in his hands, out of despair. "I don't understand. What do you want?"

"It's not what I want, darling." Irene sighed. "It's what he wants."

_He. _John could have sworn his heartbeat stopped. He picked his head up again, looking at her. "He…?"

The knowing smile again. Damn it. "You haven't read through everything, have you? 'S been a long time, you know. Time to dig up the evidence."

"_What _evidence?!" John shouted to the floor, his fists clenching. "What in bloody hell-"

Damn her for interrupting his sentences. "Calm down, John. I'm only allowed to nudge you in the right direction. I can't very well push you there."

"Then you can nudge yourself out the damned door, for all I care, and don't come back here unless you have something valuable to say!" John stood again, turning to face her.

She was quiet again, but only for a few seconds. "You're getting to be more like him, you know. He did rub off on you."

And with that, she was gone- and John was in his chair again, shaking.

* * *

_Clues…_

He found Sherlock's journal an hour later.

* * *

**Inborn: adj. Inherited or hereditary.**

**Oblivious: adj. Lacking conscious awareness; unmindful.**


	9. Infra

**The last page written on in Sherlock's journal, as found by John H. Watson on the fifteenth of April (one year after the death of Sherlock Holmes) looked like this.**

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I'm sorry- until I can find a way for fanfiction to let me post my picture within a chapter (or until someone gives me some help on how to do that, if there is a way!) You'll have to copy and paste the link into your url bar to see it. If you'd like to, I'm also on under the same username. The picture is posted within the chapter there. Here's the link (and please dm me if you can help!)

. /0c9a35f7a0c7ea4ec97ea3472e167385/tumblr_mnhvigNc6 a1qdrl5ko1_r1_

* * *

Notes: Chapter title comes from the song title "_Infra 5_" by Olafur Arnalds; The word **Infra**, translated from its Latin origin, means **'Later (in this writing)'** or **'Below (in this document)'**.


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